That In Between Place
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Treville is lost. Athos' turmoil is beyond grief until a moment of clarity; and amity lifts the veil of confusion. This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' September theme of 'Confusion'.


That In Between Place

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Treville is lost. Athos' turmoil is beyond grief until a moment of clarity; and amity lifts the veil of confusion. This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' September theme of 'Confusion'.

* * *

Time stood agonizingly still.

The shift from urgency to despair; and that space between what is true and false held him hostage. Gravity weighed him down, pinned his arms to his sides; pressed his feet to the earth and squeezed his heart painfully tight beneath his rib cage.

He could not speak, swallow, think or comprehend. His body no longer under his control, drifted in that in between place with no course to follow. What madness was this, Athos thought with trepidation. And without warning a sense of panic began to travel at a slow insidious pace deep within his bones; into his bloodstream aiming for his heart.

He looked anxiously to Aramis for answers, for some sort of explanation, for a miracle. But the sorrowful, heartbroken gaze that met his told the truth of it. No…not the truth, he internally denied. This was not truth. This was some fabrication conjured up – a mistake; a horrible, terrible mistake. One Grimaud would pay for with his life.

An inner voice screamed at him to ask another – to refute what Aramis would not say aloud. But in that moment all air sucked away as if in a vacuum – leaving him lightheaded; foggy with confusion – his thoughts a scattered, drifting specter – threatening to unhinge him.

Trembling, he determined that he must gather himself and wait. Be still, quiet and patient. He must stand here in the aftermath of this treacherous carnage; and hold his breath. Let time be still; linger here – pause; so as not to leap forward and bring to light the unimaginable.

For if he was to exhale – time would most certainly begin again. Then he would be forced to move on; accept the unthinkable – and he could not do it.

Not without his Captain, his rudder – his mainstay.

He must hold fast. It could not be – it wasn't so.

Was it not just moments ago that his Captain – his Minister – had fought off an army? Was it not so that he almost singlehandedly saved France; and rescued their King? This before him was a dream, a nightmare of sorts – one he would wake from; recover, then cast off the dread of such an apparition.

Truly Aramis must lie. Any moment Treville would sit up; bruised, battered, wounded – but alive. He would point to the east and gruffly bark out orders to, "Make haste! Follow Porthos and retrieve the King."

Teetering minutely on the edge of reality, the terrain, the scene before him of blood, death and sacrifice locked into place. The images here seared through his vision – implanted forever on his psyche. But he could not seem to decipher these impressions; understand them – grasp the meaning. This vision – this …moment made no sense.

Who could this man be lying in a pool of blood? Not Treville. Not strong, steady, loyal Treville - a man who could withstand any obstacle; face down any enemy – find a solution to any predicament. Not him …..but….?

Why was it that d'Artagnan sat in the dirt? His face so stricken it paled beneath his olive tones; his lip bloodied where he bit with force. Were those tears gathering in his eyes; a sob bubbling from his throat?

There was no need to weep….was there?

Aramis studied him warily and made to speak – so he turned away to avoid hearing the words. He would not hear them; because it wasn't so. His Captain would not leave him without counsel – would not steal away and keep him waiting – lost. Soon he would speak and all would be as it should.

But then gravity released him and he exhaled without fruition. Legs buckling, he locked his knees to stay standing and face down the hailstorm of grief that bombarded him. It beat upon his body, tore at his heart and shredded his skin. He closed his eyes briefly and could hear the onslaught attempting to topple him over.

When he opened his eyes he looked to the sky and beyond to find Aramis' God ….to beg him for a reprieve. To promise anything – everything, if only….

But the stillness he received in answer was unnerving – the hush unnatural. The clouds sat at a standstill and ceased to traverse the heavens; the sun beat down on them a hellish heat; the dirt clogged his throat and stung his eyes.

Adrenaline from the fatal battle seeped from his body leaving him weak and boneless. The strength in him, all but gone; merged with the pool of red lapping toward his boots. Dropping his sword, he groaned deep from his belly, then suppressed the horror of loss – covering his mouth, jamming the need to scream back down his throat.

It was not true. If he believed this error, made it so – he would be destroyed.

He watched Treville intently for any sign; waited for the order to escape from lips now turned dusky blue. He could not understand why his Minister did not speak; why he lay still, gray without…

Why he left him standing here inert in this wasteland?

d'Artagnan stood shakily to his feet, swiping tears from his cheeks; leaving patches of dirt beneath his eyes and frowned as he squeezed Athos' shoulder. Wary in the wake of unwanted sympathy, he stepped back out of reach and continued to wait.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the silent conversation between his brothers. d'Artagnan's worry, sorrow and anxiety clear in his countenance. He could feel their grief, and love for him – trying to push aside his reserves to stay sane.

They wished to help him; and he in turn them; but he ignored their pain and set his own aside. There was too much to do.

The chaos around them had subsided, the intended insurrection squashed. France was safe; the King was safe…..Treville's genius had made it so. Later when they talked, he would dissect the plan – hear the man's reasoning; learn from a master of diplomatic strategy. But now they had to….

Athos turned in a half circle and frowned, attempting to concentrate; regroup; grasp what steps to take next.

They had to …? To…..? What was it…..? "What must I do?" he pleaded.

"We must remove him from the dirt." Aramis croaked out, his voice hoarse; raw with emotion as he gripped the ornate cross around his neck, and concluded a prayer for the dead.

d'Artagnan nodded in assent; bent low to reach for the man who in life had given him a second chance and with a hitch in his voice volunteered, "I'll help; then ride after Porthos."

Athos brought his mind back from some far away, disjointed place where his Captain, always his Captain – more his father than his own – rained on him praises; pride and unwavering support. Then in haste knelt hard to the earth, reached for the heart of the soldier; his mentor, his friend – who had saved his life; guided him through despair and through sheer force of will, molded him into the man he was today.

And beneath his hand, he hoped against hope to feel the warmth of life. But there was no beat, no rise and fall …. Nothing.

As if lost in a maze of ever twisting hedges of anguish, he stood to lift his fallen friend; and blindly moved in sync with his brothers to carry him away from the swirling dust.

* * *

When next he was himself – no longer confused; events clear in his mind – the truth settled heavy; a real presence of unmitigated pain. He likened it to a dagger plunged deep within his chest, which could not be removed.

d'Artagnan entered the bed chamber in a rush of torrid grief – Porthos close on his heels; the child Louis; their King gripping his coat tails, eyes wide with fear; refusing to release him.

He found that he had no memory of bringing Treville here to the bed of his enemy; sitting at his side, both hands gripping the silk of his coat. His fingers were stiff; and his back ached. Hours must have passed without his knowledge.

Aramis scooped His Majesty up into his arms; and exited the room in haste- lips pressed to the boy's unruly hair, as d'Artagnan fell to his knees and wept at Treville's side – his shoulders shuddering in time with his wrenching sobs. Porthos sat heavily in a nearby chair; dust covered – exhausted, and stared silently into his large hands as if trying to find some answer, some meaning to this loss.

He caressed the sword at his hip – this gift from Treville who had given him not only this prize possession; but who had also given his life purpose, and someone to return home to from the war.

Athos considered his friends and out of the well that was his sorrow whispered, "He has left us", and bowed his head to rest upon Treville's unmoving chest; repositioning his grasp to maintain purchase in the folds of his garment– then vowed secretly in earnest to exact revenge, show no mercy – kill Grimaud with his bare hands….

A hand fell to his shoulder, squeezed in comfort and the dark shroud of hatred receded; to be replaced by the clarity of love and brotherhood.

"No Athos – Treville has not left us", Aramis countered, "He has merely gone ahead; and when we meet upon him again, his arms will open wide in greeting, as if we have returned from battle."

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. Please review and let me know what you think. This piece is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' September theme of 'Confusion'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate please go to the forums page and read about the rules and how to enter.


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